Widow - Anne Stuart [72]
It wasn’t going to be him, more’s the pity. In a matter of minutes she was going to find out what a shit he really was, and then she’d never look at him again, much less touch him.
Which was fine with him. He didn’t need a vulnerable child-woman like Charlie falling in love with him, as she’d be bound to do as soon as he gave her a nice big orgasm. He preferred his solitary life, and commitment was the last thing he was looking for, and the first thing Charlie needed.
Pompasse’s women were assembled on the terrace. Lauretta was trying to calm a querulous and confused Antonella, Gia was smoking, and Olivia was staring out over the countryside.
“Have a good night, Maguire?” Gia greeted him smugly. “I did.”
“So I gather,” he said in a cool voice.
“I know. I heard the two of you come upstairs. I hope poor Charlie wasn’t too distressed.”
“She survived,” he said.
Some of Gia’s smugness vanished. “Don’t try to convince me you slept with her. I know better.”
“Of course you do, Gia,” he replied.
“Would you mind?” Olivia broke in. “It’s my daughter you’re talking about.”
Maguire took a quick glance around. His battered Fiat was blocked in by the police cars, but if he was fast he might be able to get out without hitting anyone, which would be a major plus. He was going to have to answer questions sooner or later, but he’d just as soon get the hell out of there before anyone knew exactly who and what he was. Before having to face Charlie once she knew what a liar he was.
Not to mention making his escape without denting a police car in the process.
He went over and poured himself a cup of Lauretta’s strong coffee. It wasn’t as good as Charlie’s. There was something irresistible about a woman who could make a truly great cup of coffee. Hell, there was a lot that was irresistible about Charlie. And he needed to get over it. “So what are the police doing?”
“Talking to Henry,” Olivia said. “Apparently he had a lot to tell them.”
“About Pompasse? I thought he barely knew the old goat.”
“No, Mr. Maguire,” Olivia said, meeting his gaze. “I do believe he’s talking about you.”
17
“If they’re not ready for me then I think I’ll go for a little walk,” Maguire was saying in a lazy voice just as Charlie came out on the terrace. She had pulled her clothes on with shaking fingers, then gone around the back way to enter the house from the other side. For a moment she’d been tempted to just run upstairs, but she could hear voices from behind the closed door to the dining room. Henry’s voice, in his rich, modulated tones, and the rapid-fire translator.
She heard Maguire’s name, and she didn’t want to listen anymore. She would have turned and run back out, but Gia had already spotted her, and her mouth curved in a perfect, catlike smile.
“You will please stay here, signore.” One of the policemen had moved to block Maguire’s way. “They will be ready for you momentarily.”
She felt him look at her from across the terrace, but she ignored him, unable to look into his dark, unfathomable eyes and remember what had passed, or almost passed, between them.
“Where the hell have you been, Charlie?” her mother demanded. “Henry was worried sick about you.”
“Sure he was,” Charlie said, moving to pour herself a cup of coffee.
“You’re still wearing your same clothes,” Gia pointed out maliciously. “Where’d you spend the night?”
For some reason they were all far too interested in the answer to her question. Even the police seemed curious. And God knows Maguire was capable of coming up with the truth if she didn’t answer.
“I spent the night in the church. I like to go up there and be alone sometimes. You have to admit this house is awfully crowded.” She managed a deprecating smile, a ghost of her usual calm. “I must have fallen asleep up there.” At least it wasn’t a complete lie.
“It’s not safe up there, Signora Charlie. You should know that!” Lauretta said. “The stones are crumbling more than you’re used to. You could fall and no one would know where to find you.”
“Actually